Fallacies and Fantasies
by starry19
Summary: 6x02 Tag - "Shamefully, selfishly, the only thought that crossed his mind had been 'not again.' The door on the far side of the darkened living room became the door at the end of his hallway in Malibu."


**AN: **I won't say I'm officially back, but I'm definitely back for this episode. For all of you who wished me well – THANK YOU! Everything went perfectly, and I am, in fact, typing these notes with a sleeping baby girl on my shoulder.

A word of caution: if this seems to not be flowing like my usual stories…well, I think I've slept about 4 hours total in the past two days. I put my phone in the refrigerator yesterday, so that should tell you how with it I am.

**Fallacies and Fantasies **

He was starting to take aspirin like they were Skittles.

Then again, he figured the universe could forgive him. It had been a very long couple of days.

Even the memory of what had transpired was enough to start his heart pounding, for the cold, choking fear to sweep over him again. For as long as he lived, he would never forget what it felt like, running into that house.

Shamefully, selfishly, the only thought that crossed his mind had been _not again_. The door on the far side of the darkened living room became the door at the end of his hallway in Malibu. He could feel the presence of the omniscient painted face, watching him, watching everything with an air of malignance.

He would not survive this time.

And there she was, her small form crumpled on a dirty mattress, dark hair falling in waves across the striped pillow. Her face…oh, God.

It took a moment, but the movements of the EMTs alerted him to the fact that this scene wasn't the same as it had been a decade ago.

He was kneeling on the floor beside her before he'd made the conscious decision to move. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could see the steady rise and fall of her chest. His hands shook as he carefully pressed one against her heart, its rhythmic beat further assurance that he hadn't lost her.

His breath sounded loud in his own ears as he watched the paramedics load her limp body onto the stretcher. Their flashlights glinted on the blood smeared on her face, and he was struck with sudden desperation.

The son of a bitch had marked her. Had taken _his_ Lisbon and marred her ivory skin with something from the very depth of his worst nightmares. Only in his case, the nightmares were always real, always something dredged from his memories and not his imagination.

He needed to get the blood off. Needed to get rid of the reminder.

He _would not_ lose Lisbon to this.

Frantically, he called for water, anything to remove the blood stains from her face. He refused to leave the ambulance as they drove. By the time they reached the hospital, the mark was gone, though every time he closed his eyes he could see it in vivid clarity. One more painted red face to haunt him.

He consented to leave the room while Lisbon was dressed in hospital garb and hooked up to the blinking monitors that told the world she was alive, though he was never more than a few steps from the door.

An hour later, ensconced in the chair at her bedside, he had been informed that physically, there was nothing wrong with her. He swallowed his relief, some of his more basic fears assuaged.

But there was still the primal, driving panic that kept him leaning forward, one hand wrapped around her wrist.

If he was a braver sort, he would have crawled into bed next to her, would have pulled her against his heart, kept her close enough that he could be sure she was safe.

Though he knew there was a clock on the wall facing the bed, he never bothered to look at it. It was meaningless anyway. Everything that mattered was right in front of him. He only hoped she could forgive him for putting her through this, because of his lies, his secrecy, and, most of all, because he loved her. He had been foolish enough to fall for her, to place his trust in her, to want to share his world with her.

It was the stupidest thing he had done in a decade, and there was no coming back from it now. And, if he was being honest with himself, he wouldn't take it back if he could. There had been so many nights, so wrapped up in grief and misery that what he felt for Lisbon had been the only thing to carry him through.

The darkness of night had given way to the glow of morning when her nightmare had jolted her awake.

He let his hand smooth her hair, once, twice, forgetting that giving into what he felt for Lisbon was forbidden.

In typical fashion, she had kept outwardly calm, accepting what he told her, though she did lean subtly into his touch once before remembering that it was against the rules.

Someday.

They were so close to the end now, close enough that he had allowed himself to think about the future in something other than abstract terms.

However, what happened tonight drove home to him that there would _be_ no future for them while there was a red shadow lingering around them. Unfortunately, he didn't see any other course than to continue with the plan he had in motion. It wasn't as though Lisbon was off Red John's radar, after all. He wanted her to be a pawn, and no matter what action was taken, she would still be in his sights.

He had adjusted his behavior accordingly after he left the hospital. No avoiding her calls, no ignoring her requests to keep in touch and to let her know what was happening. She had been marked – the more information she had the better her chance of survival.

Later, as they both sat in the attic, listening to Sophie's notes, he knew she was doing the same thing he was – carefully cross-referencing each of the suspects with the description they were given. With every word, they inched closed to the end of this.

Later, he dared to rest his hands on her shoulders as they contemplated their new information. She was tense, and he had a feeling she was like this most of the time now. Lisbon was a spectacularly bad actress, and her tension was evident in every move she made. If they didn't crack this open soon, he had a feeling _she_ would crack under the stress.

"Let's get dinner," he finally murmured, willing his fingers to stay still. It seemed all they wanted to do was touch her, to take away some of her pain and anxiety. Ever since he had broken the barrier in the hospital, sliding his hands through silky hair, it was all he could do to control himself.

Someday.

He knew in his heart that that day was hurtling forward at them, making remarkable time. It would be here soon, very soon.

He could only hope that they would wake up the day after, still mostly the same people they had been.

And then…they would see.


End file.
